


So Very Close

by di0brando



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Friends to Lovers, Genderqueer James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Fix-It, Requited Unrequited Love, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 14:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30056718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0brando/pseuds/di0brando
Summary: "What does that even say about James? Certainly not that he’s fawning over some high fantasy in which Francis doesn’t reconcile with Miss Cracroft at Sir John Barrow’s ball in a fortnight. A fantasy in which James won’t have to abandon their lonely house after Francis is wed and gone away."An upcoming ball, proper expectations, and two men hoping that retiring from the Discovery Service means that "close" is no longer nothing.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	So Very Close

A dull ache threatens to make itself known in Francis’ knees and fingers. It’s stoppered; however, by the fact that London’s heavy clouds refuse to let loose their pitiful bouts of snow. So long as the foul weather abstains, the hollow creaks of Francis’ bones aren’t much of an issue.

He and his remaining crewmen haven’t been home for long, but Francis can tell that he will be wrestling with his internal souvenirs from the arctic every year now. It’s only fair, he supposes, after having invaded her virtuous waters on a fool’s errand. She’s let him go, but not without leaving some of her icy teeth beneath his skin. He cannot dig any of them out, and he would not bother trying to if he could.

London’s cold is almost nothing to him now—he believes he could duck out into the gray afternoon with nothing more than his shirtsleeves and trousers on and feel quite comfortable. Francis almost chuckles at the idea of how he’ll behave come summer. In theory, he could lounge about his rooms without a stitch of clothing, unable to go into town while sweating like a criminal before the gallows.

Fitzjames certainly won’t fair much better, Francis muses. He’ll have to keep a crew’s worth of handkerchiefs on his person and use one every time sweat forms on his brow, threatening to turn his glossy curls limp. The bloody show dog will insist on taking a two-week respite by some lake, no doubt eager to push Francis into the water at the first opportunity.

Francis hides his grin, keeping it to himself behind his china cup. His smile twitches down into a grimace once he registers that his tea’s become lukewarm. He’s neglected it, lost entirely, despite how good it tastes.

“My God, man, I’ve reason to suspect that the arctic has damaged your ears!”

Francis blinks, probably looking owlish as he comes back to himself—draws his trance-like attention away from the window and back to where it should be; in Ross’ sitting room. Francis sets his cup to the side and clears his throat, adjusting his posture. Tugs at his waistcoat and turns to Ross in full, finding that his friend isn’t irritated. In fact, he looks amused.

“Unfortunately, it has,” Francis smirks, pointing at Ross, “and I expect you to tell all future party-goers as much next time I’m in the middle of ignoring their dreadful questions. They’ll take pity on me and I might enjoy my dinner in peace.”

Ross laughs at this, his mouth propping up in the usual sharp and charming angle. He shakes his head, chestnut waves are then guided behind his ear. The two chuckle for another good moment, feeling no sense of urgency as they enjoy a peaceful letup. The fire crackles in the hearth just beyond Ross’ chair. The heat is a comfort to Francis even though he is seated farther away from it. He appreciates the warmth now even more than he did when he and Ross returned from the Antarctic.

“I’m sorry, friend. What were you speaking of?” Francis folds his fingers in an arch, his elbows on the chair’s armrests. Ross goes to take a sip of his tea but purses his mouth when he sees that his cup is empty. He shakes his head and looks up at Francis.

“I was noting that Miss Cracroft is no longer in a state of mourning.” Ross speaks casually, but his eyes glint with all of the knowledge and care he holds for Francis. Not cautious as if treading on a frozen pond. Francis feels his mouth fall open in surprise and he makes quick work of shutting it again. He presses the tip of his tongue between the gap in his front teeth, his jaw working minutely with nerves.

What Ross says is true, albeit Francis hasn’t thought to take much notice of Sophia’s blue-again dresses. It strikes him as odd, how he’s distanced himself somewhat. Two years prior, he would have committed himself to having proper, ongoing dialogue with her. He would have tried to be the wind in her sails despite the fact that she’s never wanted for wind. She’s always sailed just fine on her own, harsh weather and rocky waves aside.

Perhaps he would have even made a fool of himself (more than he already has, at least) by trying to navigate between her grief and his own distaste for Sir John Franklin. He would think of the fumbling over eggshells as more difficult than navigating the Northwest Passage, but that kind of joke would be painful and too distasteful for Francis’ liking.

“I see.” Says Francis, unable to come up with a more involved response. Ross can’t hide the look of surprise that passes over his face. His eyebrows climb and he blinks firmly. He utters a short, choppy huff of laughter.

“At a loss, Francis? Where is your mind? I’ll admit, I’m surprised you’ve not broached this topic with me in recent months. I know that the death of Sir John smarts our circles—that the topic may be inappropriate with most—but you should never feel the need to keep your honesty from me.” Ross speaks sincerely, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His brow knits with concern and Francis appreciates it.

Francis sighs heavily and tries to come up with an answer, grasping at straws, as he hasn’t considered the nuances and implications of his and Sophia’s relationship since he was last aboard _Terror_.

“I don’t wish to belittle Sophia in any manner; in that way, I suppose I’ve felt the need to keep my distance. Though we may no longer be aboard ships, those that have returned with me are still entitled to my care. I owe them my help as they attempt to repair themselves. We are,” Francis struggles to find a word and clenches a fist, “ _bound_ , I feel. The courtship of a grieving friend has been far from my mind, James. We have all gone through changes since we became locked in the pack, and though people like you and Sophia were thousands of miles away, you were not spared from such changes.”

Ross nods sagely, rubbing at his chin. They haven’t spoken much of it, but it’s clear that Ross paced anxiously—toiled away with guilt while his friends withered down to nothing, abandoned on the ice. Wondered if the devoted, loving promises he made to his Ann would take an unforeseen toll.

“You’re right, Francis. I hope I didn’t imply that you should toss aside your new duties in favor of your previous goals. I believe you deserve all the time you need before you retrace your steps.”

“And you believe that I should? Retrace my steps, that is.” Francis angles his head slightly, feeling his brow pinch. He values Ross’ input immensely, and Ross may understand Francis’ current options better than he. Ross spreads his hands in a gesture that shows he’s too confident and comfortable to shrug; he won’t give Francis useless advice.

“I believe that you should do whatever makes you happy. I bring this to your attention because I am _not_ the only one considering what the future holds. As much as you loathe it, Francis, people talk. The season is upon us, and I’m positive Lady Jane expects you to make some sort of move soon. There is nothing stopping you from doing so now that you’re cleared with the Admiralty.”

Francis waves a hand and leans back in his chair.

“The woman would stick her nose up at me even if the king were to kiss my arse and roll over for Ireland tomorrow. _And_ I’m sure her malice has doubled since I’ve come home without her husband in tow. Moreover, I’ll not humiliate myself a third time; just because Sophia is no longer in bombazine does not mean she will welcome such attentions.”

“You sound as though your mind is made up.” Ross says thoughtfully, expression neutral in the orange glow that stretches from the backing fire. Francis’ mouth snaps shut at that, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But his stomach doesn’t twist, his palms do not sweat, and his chest doesn’t tighten. He feels fine. At ease. Which is not how he ever expected himself to feel upon deciding _not_ to pursue Sophia Cracroft.

Maybe that should be alarming; maybe it should indicate that something is, in fact, wrong with him. A younger Francis—a Francis from Van Diemen’s land—would throttle him for even suggesting that Sophia, cradled sweetly in his arms, would not bring him elation. Now he is simply … indifferent towards the idea. Oh, how the ice and shale have altered him.

“Much to consider, is all,” says Francis, not ready to acknowledge this new and intimidating quandary, “I should discuss the matter further with her; learn what she thinks is best.”

“Before the ball, at least. Lord, Francis, you’ve two weeks until then. You should both be on the same page lest Lady Jane poison your drink for no reason, eh?” Ross chuckles, rising to his feet and collecting his china.

“Ball? What bloody ball?” Francis looks about the room as if Ross is having him on. Ross scoffs with disbelief, regarding Francis as the hopeless recluse that he is.

“The _ball_ at Sir John Barrow’s manor; the one that intends to honor the health of your crew? Grossly ironic in many ways, I know, but that’s a summation of the Admiralty.” Ross shakes his head and begins to leave the room. His voice carries behind him with good humor as he dips through the entrance hall. “Did Fitzjames not show you your invitation, or do you ignore him when he speaks, also?”

Francis frowns (not petulantly, mind) at the mantelpiece.

  
  


James eyes several hats on display in a shop window. He’s not a big fan of wearing any even when they’re part of expected ensembles; dislikes the sensation of the tight fabric rustling over his hair, if he’s being honest. Dundy’s on a bit of a kick with them now, though, which is why James is currently idling outside, waiting for him to emerge with some new box in his possession.

Dundy’s had his sights set on a bright young lady—one Miss Emma Moore—ever since he’s become capable of interacting with the public again. Dundy has meat on his bones now and he’s been given a clean bill of health. All this to say that there’s nothing stopping him from pursuing a bird far out of his league now. James tells him this in jest, of course, and is more than happy to watch his friend fret over a ball; something they couldn’t imagine partaking in when they were rotting away with scurvy.

James leans on his walking stick and tries not to wince. He’s been out of sorts for months on end despite his steady recovery. Weight is sticking to his cheeks and ribs again—he likes to think he looks as good as new—but there’s a lingering wrongness in his tendons, in his marrow. He’s easily fatigued and he’s lost some degree of vision in his left eye. A few of his teeth (in the back, thankfully) have needed to be replaced with false substitutes.

Francis is in a similar yet different state. Their injuries and ailments varied, but James knows that the miserable London weather has been bringing out some haunts in their tired bodies.

James prods at one of his fake teeth with his tongue, all too aware of the slightly-off texture, and turns his gaze to a string of pearls on display in the opposite window. Maybe Dundy is no longer picking out a hat; maybe he is fantasizing about purchasing future, extravagant gifts should Miss Moore accept his courtship. Maybe Dundy is currently fretting inside the shop and he needs a wiser man’s input in regards to feminine preferences. That would give James a good excuse to run his fingers over a pair of silk gloves.

James’ eyes dart up as Dundy quickly emerges from within, stepping out to meet James with a dazzling smile and, indeed, a new hat box hooked beneath his elbow.

“For how long I have waited, I expect nothing less than the most handsome hat I’ve ever laid eyes on!” James bemoans with false drama, as though he’s been stranded in the middle of the walkway for ages.

“It is a very fine hat, I’ll have you know.” Dundy insists, his grin never faltering as he and James begin to walk down the street.

“You shall wear it for fifteen minutes at most,” James smirks, “before you toss it aside! It shall land on some ancient captain’s dinner plate after you convince Miss Moore to rip her dance card to shreds and devote her swirling skirts to you and you alone!” James clasps Dundy on the shoulder and jostles him. Dundy’s face turns red and he swats at James’ wrist.

“My God, how does Captain Crozier live with you!” Dundy exclaims in turn, laughing even though he doesn’t want to give James the satisfaction.

“Come now, Dundy, you’ve known me for ages. You know that I’m wonderful company.”

“Too right, but our time together is not as _concentrated_ , I’d say.”

“Well, I won’t pretend to know what that means.” James sniffs, immediately opting for a haughty or unaffected tone.

He and Francis do live together; they rent rooms from a very quiet, older gentleman. Francis had moved into the house first, only a few weeks after they arrived in London with Ross. Later, James had visited him and was aghast by what a sorry state the place was in. Minimalist was the nicest word James could come up with, and he’d insisted on helping Francis get his bloody life in order. Francis had laughed at his theatrics, grew quiet for a moment, then asked if James was staying somewhere nice.

James had beaten around the bush, unable to look Francis in the face and recognize himself as a hypocrite, for he had no dignified lodgings, either. Quite a few of the surviving crewmen had families to return to, but Francis and James were wayward children with too-sad eyes, wondering what to do with their new, broad funds.

Francis did not, decidedly, beat around the bush. He insisted that James move in with him, and James’ heart sang the moment he did. He doesn’t verbalize it, but Francis’ company makes him feel so very content. Their bond fills in James’ little gaps—the missing teeth and the twice-healed holes in his arm and ribs. Their little house feels like a home to James, and that’s something he has not had since he was a child living with William.

James diverts the subject somewhat.

“I’ve not shown our ball invitations to Francis yet. I fear he’ll conveniently turn up missing if he’s given too much time to agonize over his expected attendance.”

“Perhaps we should start a betting pool with the lads,” Dundy laughs, raising his eyebrows, “and see how long he manages conversations before we find him tucked away behind the garden hedges! I’ll wager twenty minutes!”

“Ha! You give our good captain too much credit; I’ll win the bet if I wager seven minutes, certainly.”

Of course James says this with utmost respect—he understands Francis as well as he understands the backs of his hands now. Or at least, he likes to think that’s true. The man holds clever and stimulating conversations. He’s sharp as a tack and thorough to boot. James always mistook him for entirely anti-social, and while there was indeed a chip on his shoulder, Francis had a view of politics and social chess that James didn’t understand before they left for the Passage.

James can better relate to Francis’ dour view now. While he still walks the proper walk and plays by London’s rules (it’s second nature), his patience has thinned. The never-ending questions regarding their time on the ice are grating and they require James to use the entirety of his poker face. He no longer appreciates the masks that aristocrats wear, for none of them cover up tragedy or decay. They cover up adultery or petty conflicts. James no longer wants to bend over backwards in order to please catty devils that have never met the gaping ravager that is _hunger_.

James dips out of his musings when George Barrow comes bustling across the street, raising an arm as if James may miss him entirely. James nods his head. For a few moments, he’d almost forgotten that Barrow was accompanying them during their little outing (even though they are running errands due to the Barrows’ ball in the first place).

“Ah, good! There you are! I was beginning to worry you’d forget me and carry on to Lord knows where!” Says George. Dundy chuckles politely.

It’s not as though James dislikes George—nothing so severe, they’re on good terms—it’s just that George’s lackadaisical perspective is not as endearing as it once was. He and James used to traipse around seedy and exotic environments alike, somewhat open to acting foolish all in the name of _experience_. Well now, James has had more than enough of experience, thank you very much, and he’s beginning to see George’s disregard for his privileges and safety for what it is; juvenile.

James has earned his Naval ranking twice over now, regardless of his poor decisions and the abandonment of _Erebus_. He no longer owes the Barrows anything beyond civility. Francis’ friendship has only made James certain that he’d like to keep naivety at arm’s length now.

“Delivered your parcels, then?” Dundy asks as George falls into step with them; in a row, the three take up the width of the walkway. James is glad that their boots make even noises. The sound of loose rocks now causes the hairs on his arms to stand on end.

“Yes, no issues there.” George nods. “I see you’ve managed to pick a hat! Wonderful. My tailor should be finished altering my trousers by the end of the week, then I’ll be all set.” Talk of the ball makes George’s face alight suddenly. He turns to James.

“Ah! Before I forget,” George gestures with a hand, “I was discussing the ball with several other friends not two days past--”

“You don’t say.” James deadpans, raising his eyebrows. George clearly fights the urge to swat at him.

“Hush! I’d mentioned _you_ and the fact that you are still in the process of getting back on your feet. One of my companions insisted that you should try testing the waters for courtship, as a loving bride may set your mind at ease! He brought up a fine, young relative of his—a Josephine Ward, if I remember correctly. She apparently enjoys a good horseback ride, and has just rebuked a gentleman’s advances because he was not _dashing_ enough—his words, not mine. And my friend went on to say that you, Captain Fitzjames, sound _dashing_ enough, and may indeed make an impression on Miss Ward. If you were interested in making an impression, that is.”

James takes all of this in before he guffaws in a manner that he really wouldn’t describe as ‘dashing.’

“My God, am I unable to limp into February before I must bat away every fine lady that may be riveted by my status?” James’ tone isn’t bitter, though he knows he sounds a bit put out. Exhausted already, maybe. The reality is that he was hoping to keep this aspect of high society at bay for just a little bit longer. He’s still recovering, for God’s sake. That’s what he tells himself, even though he insists to his immediate circle that he is perfectly functional and ready to take on the world.

“Come now, James, it’s not as dire as all that, is it? That’s not what I meant; by no means am I pushing you into meeting with her. It was just an idea—I believe my friend was trying to be polite in his suggestion.”

James feels the eyes of both Dundy and George pinning him down like an insect run through with a needle. Dundy’s expression is probably quite concerned, and George is certainly oblivious to it.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture.” James starts but then he catches himself. How is he supposed to respond? What excuse does he have that won’t seem flimsy? Is James married to the sea? Impotent in a way that shall never please a woman longing for children? Should he feign a tragic illness? No, no, that would be in poor taste after what he’s been through, and if anything it would attract more pitying ladies.

What is he to _say_? That he’s more than content to live out the rest of his days with Francis in their bachelors’ residence? That even though they’ve only just returned to London, he can’t fathom any other kind of future? What does that even say about James?

That he’s— _certainly_ not that he’s fawning over some high fantasy in which Francis doesn’t reconcile with Miss Cracroft at Sir John Barrow’s ball in a fortnight. A fantasy in which James won’t have to abandon their lonely house after Francis is wed and gone away.

James can’t afford to lose himself in fantasy, because the reality is that eventually—inevitably—Francis will learn why it is that James has little interest in marriageable women. And it’s not that he fears Francis pulling away from him out of disgust (Francis is far too gracious, too loyal). But necessity would mandate their separation. Should James’ weaknesses, beyond his shameful parentage, ever come to light, Francis’ reputation would be at stake. He’s already gone through more than enough trials; has already struggled to keep the Admiralty from kicking him down the front steps simply because of his brogue. No, James can’t cost Francis his future by refusing to consider his own.

James really can’t lose himself in fantasy, can he?

“Oh, don’t let it trouble you!” George smiles, waving with another casual gesture that proves he’s unaware of James’ world tilting on its very axis. “It’s just something to think about—we could introduce you to Miss Ward at the ball with no difficulties. Nobody’s pushing you to the altar, don’t look so ghastly,” George leans in and elbows James’ arm, adopting a conspiratorial tone, “I know you won’t settle for less than the perfect bride!”

James feels as though the wind could blow right through the holes in his arm, through his ribs, and send him careening into the nearest fence line. He looks heavenward and blames the earnest burning in his eyes on the sunlight trickling down through the clouds. He demands that his jaw doesn’t twitch and his fists don’t curl. As refined as ever, he smiles and nods a thanks to George.

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” says James, “I suppose you’re right, I could use a bit of a push back into the way of things. It’d be my pleasure to meet her, even if she doesn’t consider me _dashing_ enough for her tastes.” The joke lands without a hitch, George tosses his head back and laughs. He adjusts the brim of his hat, and luckily, his flighty attentions are turned to something else.

“Oh, another moment, boys. I must have left my walking stick with the post!” George forgetting such expensive craftsmanship makes James’ teeth grind in a way that they wouldn’t have four years ago. He says nothing and gnaws on the inside of his cheek once George has dashed off.

“James.” Dundy says softly, stepping in front of James in an attempt to catch his eye. James blinks hard and gives his friend a hapless smile. Dundy’s brow creases and he touches a too-kind hand to James’ elbow.

“This has upset you.” Dundy laments.

“No, no, it’s no matter.” James insists, clearing his throat to keep his voice from wavering. James, in his habitual tic, tosses a curling lock of hair out of his face.

Dundy doesn’t look so sure. Most likely due to the fact that he’s the only person that understands James’ aversion to courting. He’s the only one that James has uttered the truth to. While Francis holds the circumstances of James’ birth gently in his hands, Dundy holds James’ fondness for men in his. Together, they cradle the very nature of him, and James trusts them both to be delicate in their handling. It’s been rewarding to have friends like them, just as it’s been taxing to perform like a bloody liar for Britain’s great and ever-faultfinding eye.

“You don’t owe anyone a damn thing, least of all an explanation. Do you hear me, Jas?” The thin line of Dundy’s mouth curves upward. He pats James’ arm before letting his hand fall back down to his side.

“Yes, I hear you.” James nods, returning Dundy’s smile even though it’s tight. They begin to walk again, unconcerned with whether or not George will catch up to them quickly.

“It just that when George spoke, it occurred to me that I’ve been ducking my head—avoiding the future and all it entails. There will come a day when I can no longer avoid making a decision. I’ll have to weave some tale or another explaining why I will not take a wife. Or I will have to take a wife.” James huffs and idly watches as a pair of horses tugs a carriage along on the other side of the road. One tosses its mane, and it makes James long for a wide stretch of green, rolling hills, far away from the city.

“Not to minimize your worries, but there’s no dire issue at the moment, I don’t think. We can discuss it another day, when we have the boon of privacy. Otherwise, you have plenty of time for tall tales and general morbing.” Dundy flashes him another grin, this time more confident and accompanied by a wink.

“No, I’ve only two _weeks_ , apparently.” James deadpans, mocking George’s insistence, and it sends them both into a bout of honest laughter.

Once a lull settles over their walk, James thinks of sitting down by the fireplace every evening with Francis. Thinks of quietly reading books or articles in companionable silence, sometimes breaking it in order to deliver some scathing, humorous review. He thinks of the content smile that lingers on Francis’ face as the fire’s glow makes itself at home in his scars.

For the first time ever, James finds that he’s unwilling to look the future in the eye. His entire life, he’s been sprinting in _pursuit_ of the future, hoping to catch it in his hands and tame it. Hoping to accomplish and conquer. Hoping to be promoted and recognized and praised. Hoping to venture out into the unknown world, and then hoping more than anything to see home again, one last time.

Now, home is a sitting room shared with a friend, and James wants nothing more than the present. All at once, he understands that he’s probably trying to cling to it quite pitifully, hoping to keep it in his pocket.

James thinks of the ball, and he thinks of Miss Cracroft with her golden curls and her taffeta gowns and her slim hands. He thinks of Francis, standing in the belly of a chapel, his pale eyes dazzling with pride. James thinks of cream papers wrinkling in his own unnerved grip; either an invitation to a wedding or an invitation back out to sea. Not that one would make him less miserable than the other. They would both serve to demolish his fragile spirit.

James has never wanted the future less than he wants it now.

  
  


“A ball, is it?” Francis asks later that evening, looking up from his novel to see James’ eyes widen. “Were you going to tell me about it, or was your plan to blindfold me and lie about a spontaneous trip to an opera house?” Francis is unable to bite down his smirk, and when James registers that he isn’t being scolded, the lines in his cheeks take on a mischievous upturn.

“To be honest, dear friend, I’d plans to hogtie you and deposit your irate form in the middle of Sir Barrow’s dining room, unable to escape what shall no doubt be an enchanting celebration.”

“And gag me? So that I won’t curse you in a manner that will make all the fair women cover their ears?” Francis’ eyebrow arches. James’ head tilts forward, his dark eyes not unlike a fox’s.

“Certainly not—If you were gagged, you wouldn’t be able to answer all of the fine questions from our clueless, adoring public! No doubt there will be many! And I know how you love them.”

“Well, when they ask me of you, I will tell them you were terribly dignified whenever _Erebus_ ’ deck froze over. I’ll tell them that you slid and tripped and gasped as though you wore horseshoes instead of boots.”

“Knock me down a peg so long as it makes you feel better, Francis, I won’t object. So long as you can get others to believe you.” James raises his chin and it makes his dark locks shift around his jawline. It’s an age-old, practiced move that causes most people to swoon or burn with envy. Albeit, it’s one that no longer draws irritation out of Francis. In fact, it now draws a laugh out of him, and James follows suit to concede an end to the banter.

Francis knows James now—understands him. And in understanding James, he knows that his friend is no longer interested in putting himself on a pedestal. When they’re at dinner parties, James’ stories focus on the acts and fine attributes of their remaining Terrors and Erebites. When strangers praise James’ valor, he lowers his head slightly instead of raising it. When he and Francis dig playfully at each other—as they are now—there is a complete and total lack of venom.

James is softer at his edges, his bombast having retired. Is James himself retiring, then? Does he not have plans to return to sea now that the Admiralty can give him any ship his leadership would undoubtedly benefit? Will James settle down here in London—moreover, will he settle down in this very house?

Francis closes his book in his lap, and he rubs at the dip in his chin now that he’s cast in less lighthearted thoughts. James must take notice of this; he dog-ears a page of his own novel and sets it on the table beside his chair.

“A bit nauseating, isn’t it? To go through the appropriate motions, knowing this ball is supposed to … somehow laud us as _heroes_ for simply not starving to death. You know as well as I that not nearly enough men survived to warrant … celebration.”

Francis lifts his gaze to find James glowering at the hearth, his jaw working with a bit of tension.

“Applauding mediocrity is the way of things. If they were to know the truth of it, we would be shunned.” Francis says evenly, studying James’ reaction.

He, James, and their remaining crew took an oath not to speak of Mr. Hickey and the other mutineers. As far as the Admiralty is concerned, they had simply starved, and are now gone. Dead and gone. As for Tuunbaq, not a single mouth opened in order to question whether or not it should be mentioned at all. It was an unspoken vow, a secret exchanged via skittish glances as the _Enterprise_ delivered them home. It was never meant to be spoken of on English soil, so they will all take their awful memories to their graves.

“Would that be so terrible?” James mutters, so quietly that Francis almost doesn’t hear him. Francis’ mouth opens with surprise, but he can’t think of a good response. James blinks and perks up out of his grim hunch, realizing that Francis must have heard him. “To not have to lie so damned much, is all I meant. Would that we could exist without having to hold our breath and worry about saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

James has been lying his entire life, Francis notes, and now with so many lies to keep up with, it must be incredibly exhausting. Francis feels that ache, too, though perhaps not as severely.

“Aye, you see the way of it now, James. The burdens often combat the benefits of being in Her Majesty’s Navy, and they often win. Had my role not been necessary, I would have bowed out of the play a long time ago.” Says Francis, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. James watches the movement before his eyes drag back up to look at Francis’ face.

“Necessary.” James repeats. “Is it no _longer_ necessary?”

Francis can’t read James’ expression. He vaguely notices the beginnings of rain—or unattractive sleet, rather, now pattering against the windows. The noise softly competes with the shifting of logs in the fireplace.

They both know they speak of Sophia Cracroft, as she was Francis’ only incentive to stick around and put up with the amount of maltreatment that he did.

“It is probably necessary.” Francis mumbles, unclear and avoidant. He covers his mouth and tries not to let his solemnity show; he knows he’s technically lying. He knows his role is not actually _required_. But he can’t work up the nerve to say, ‘to me, it is no longer necessary.’ It sounds too damning, too foreign. He bites his tongue and looks to the window, acknowledging the sleet even though it’s too dark outside to see it properly.

Francis is, indeed, still playing a part. The part of an Irish nobody that’s climbed to the top just by the skin of his teeth. The audience is watching the finale with rapt attention; they expect him to obtain the one thing that he did all the bloody gymnastics for.

But he and Sophia are both incredibly stubborn creatures, and by God, if Francis doesn’t want to propose for a third time, he will not. If _Sophia_ doesn’t want him to propose a third time, then the point is entirely moot. Bugger the Admiralty and bugger everyone else and their expectations. If Sophia wishes to remain independent and if Francis wishes to remain in this house with James, then that’s all there is to it. All he has left to do is tell Sophia as much.

“I see.”

The words snap Francis out of his reverie, and for some reason they send a mild chill up his spine. His fingers curl tightly in the chair’s upholstery and his breath hitches as James pulls his attention back to his book. He lets it fall open in his lap and he settles his chin in his palm, apparently moving on from the ball and all its related topics.

James doesn’t look back up at Francis, and for some reason, Francis has half a mind to open his mouth and demand he look at him. But—for some other reason—he can’t.

“Any and all performances aside, you deserve the finest of futures. Truly, Francis, she should cherish you.” James says it with such honest sincerity that it nearly contradicts the fact that he won’t meet Francis’ eye.

“James.” Says Francis, swallowing past a now-dry throat. Has something upset James? The gravity of performances? Has he lost himself in a labyrinth without any yarn—talk of the ball having cast him all the way back to the arctic to stand among dead and dying men? Must Francis guide him out of it?

But before Francis can ask as much, James does look up, and when he does, he beams at him. It’s surprising in its suddenness; and it’s dazzling, endearing crooked front tooth and all. The lines of his cheeks deepen, and Francis can’t find any fault in his expression. Can’t call it a mask whatsoever. So perhaps Francis’ anxieties were unfounded, and he was seeing things that weren’t there at all.

“Will you need anything from me then, Francis?” James asks. “My tailor, my assistance, my company—you say the word, and I’ll do what needs to be done to ensure your perfect retirement!”

“Good Lord, James, don’t be ridiculous. Diving into histrionics as if you’re bound for China again as soon as this silly ball is over. There’s no ... _courtship_ or retirement at hand. Be realistic.” Francis insists, sitting up and waving a hand. Heat rises to his cheeks and ears and it can’t be blamed on the fire.

“Realistic is precisely what I’m being, old boy.” Says James. Francis huffs and shakes his head, his mouth quirking fondly no matter how much James exasperates him.

James’ smile just softens in the firelight. If it were possible, Francis would keep that kind of glow in a bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Terrors!! Thanks for checking in on this chapter! I appreciate any and all kudos, and comments absolutely make my day, so please let me know if you like anything in particular <3 
> 
> I only got into Terror this year, and I'm currently in the middle of my 4th watch. I'm not really interested in historical accuracies expedition-wise, so any mistakes should be seen as creative liberties taken with the show's canon. Also I'm def not reading Simmons' novel lmao  
> Also I write James as genderfluid, though I'm not yet sure how prominent that element will be in this specific fic! I'll add tags as other ideas and characters pop up, of course. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!! I don't update on a regular schedule bc I work odd shifts etc, but hopefully I'll get chapter 2 to you soon.


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